Son of the Sky

At five
he fell in love
with stardust,
and the sounds you make
when you're
sleeping.

He's been breathing
slowly,
collecting beauty
in his lungs,
and supernovas
in his veins. 
But he would rather paint stars
then chase them.

(My ribs once a shield of flawless ozone,
but now each exhale brings with it more cracks)

We built this world on promises
and sunlit bridges;
we only wanted to touch the sky.